Dirty pavement slabs reproach
my feet as they scuff tired shoes,
worn thin by the thousand miles
carried since the last pair.
Clock hands on the church tower above
slowly turns, counting moments,
as clouds race past distant sun
and the brace of chill tightens.
Hands, stuffed into light pockets,
tally up the rattles of change.
The wind picks up and pulls
through autumn’s clothing.
Dirty pavement slabs reproach me
with the advice I never took.
A cold breeze echoes with their words:
Dare to struggle, dare to win.